


White Socks

by pierrette



Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26219263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pierrette/pseuds/pierrette
Summary: Anne Boleyn's really done it this time. She's fully aware that the others will be furious with her, and honestly, she knows she deserves it.But has she made the same mistake, or is history just repeating itself?
Relationships: Anne Boleyn/Catherine Parr, Anne Boleyn/Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn/Henry VIII of England, Catherine of Aragon/Henry VIII of England
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	White Socks

There was no other sound in the room. For a moment, she just lay with her eyes closed, allowing herself to hear that faint whirr of air being sucked between her slightly parted lips, to feel her lungs inflate with each breath, to feel the steady beat of her heart. She can open her eyes if she likes. She’s still alive.

She didn’t know what had pulled her back to consciousness. A dream perhaps? Or… her fingers went to her neck, where she traced the pale scar that ran right across her throat. It felt odd, that part of her body, numb and almost like it tingled and tickled when she applied even the faintest pressure to it. Right now though, it was throbbing, just the tiniest bit. It wasn’t enough to wake her up. And she usually remembered those dreams that caused it to burn. Slowly, she sat up and pushed her long, dark hair out of her face. Glancing round the room, she saw her dress from the night before thrown haphazardly over her dressing table chair, and her underwear – bra, knickers, socks… - wait, socks? White socks?

She didn’t own white socks.

_Sh –_

Frantically, she racked her brains trying to think where the socks had come from. She remembered they’d been out, all six of them. No – five. Cathy had stayed at home. But no – no, there was six. Catalina’s boyfriend had been there.

_Oh holy mother f-_

Anne’s door creaked open and there he stood. Oliver Rexham. Tall, clean shaven, sandy haired and definitely good looking. And smirking as he recognised the look of horror on her face. Quickly, he closed the door and the gap between them and sat on the bed. Hastily, she pulled the sheet up tight around her body.  
“Bit late for that,” he chuckled lazily. “You couldn’t wait to show me everything last night.”  
“Oliver, I-“ she started to say, but he cut off her stuttering by pressing his finger to her lips.  
“Hush, Nan,” he answered. “It’s gonna be our little secret, right?”

He was gone then, socks picked up and almost only a bad hangover. For a minute, she sat still in her bed, processing what had happened. And then she glanced over, catching sight of herself in the mirror on her dressing table. She bit her lip, still smeared ruby red with lipstick. 

“Five hundred years later and you’ve done it again. Anne Boleyn, will you ever learn?”


End file.
